Take it away
by lostmarble
Summary: Our favorite bad boy slytherin as he thinks of green eyes and goodbyes.


_a/n: platform, rewritten for our favorite badboy slytherin as he thinks of The Boy Who Lived. I think I like it better this way...I can see it in my mind's eye, I know we're not supposed to rewrite stories, but I don't really care. _

* * *

"Nothing unusual, nothing's changed  
Just a little older that's all  
You know when you've found it,  
There's something I've learned,  
'Cause you feel it when they take it away"

-Damien Rice

* * *

He steps off of the crimson train onto the almost empty platform on the almost empty road leading to a gigantic house he almost—no, _definitely_ wishes was empty. He stands on the platform, sun shining off his silver-blond hair like a halo (_ah, the irony_), sticky-hot in his black pants and burgundy button-down shirt. He is wearing the shirt because it was the first shirt he saw when he looked in the closet (_…because it's the one he was looking for, because_ he_ likes the colour, it reminds him of rich red wine…heard him telling that frizzy haired girl…)_

No, he is wearing it because he likes the way he looks in it and he wants to look good on the last day of school before summer hols (_for _him.)

NO, damn it!

Mental growling ensues.

"Pfft. Whatever. He's my enemy…or rival…or something." (_Or something_, says a nasty little voice at the back of his mind.) Not working, apparently. New tactic? "It is of no concern to me if I don't see him for a few months." Better, almost convincing himself. He doesn't realize he's speaking out loud, thinks he's only thinking it, doesn't notice the old witch dressed all in black looking at him oddly from the bench ten feet away. Thinks he's keeping it all inside, the way he'd been taught for years. Reassuring himself now: "Anyway, school starts again in the fall, if we're lucky, and the old man can keep it open…"

_Or maybe not. Maybe it will be closed by people like my father, people who grovel at the feet of the Dark Lord, hoping for the chance to lick his shoes. Or maybe _he'll_ decide not to come back. Maybe _he_ will stay with his muggles, because he's too scared to come back. Or maybe they'll attack him even there, while he's asleep and can't defend himself. Maybe…  
_  
His face contorts, and the old woman decides he's crazy and looks away, embarrassed for staring. But seconds later, she looks back, and there is a tear escaping from the corner of his eye. He doesn't wipe it away, doesn't seem to notice it's there, so focused is he on the train, barely visible now. The woman nods and looks away again, her face now soft, a little sad. She recognizes this madness, she thinks, and understands it; she has it too, since Frank died. But no, he's too young to feel that kind of grief, isn't he?

_The loss of someone that means the world… _

The young man notices the tear, feels it tracing the premature crows' feet by his squinting, icyeyes. Perhaps they are melting. At last. He doesn't move. If he brushes it away, he will feel the wetness on his finger and this will be real and not a dream and he doesn't know if he can take this…doesn't know…

Isn't it supposed to rain when you're felt standing alone at the station, as the person that occupies your mind--almost incessantly--vanishes into the distance? _(When it rains, it pours…)_ Why the lack of poetic justice?

Wet drops begin to fall. Salty though, and from his stormy eyes, not the clear blue sky. Summer sky… brilliantly green life everywhere…reminds him of eyes of the same colour, set in an ever-changing face that could be stilled at any moment by a flick of a wand. Flash of sickly green--not the growth green of his eyes, but one that brings instant death, a perfect irony when you think about it. Don't, then, don't think …not about eyes wide, glazed, and unseeing… not about what it might be like without…_Calm yourself. You're being childish. What would your father say if he could see you like this? _He closes his eyes, remembers to breathe, and opens them again. His last tears drop to the hot pavement, and he swears he can hear them hiss as they hit the ground and shimmer in the sun like stars.

_Perhaps it only rains when they leave you for good_.

He smiles then, faintly, with a fragile calm. Unusual for him—a true smile, however frail. "Come fall…he _will_ come back." _Those you truly love will never truly leave you._ Eyes widen, and the smile broadens with revelation.

_Of course._


End file.
